


Kaleidoscope

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Scars, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier dusts kisses along his cheekbone, lingering for a moment just below his eye. He doesn’t pull too far away, but Geralt misses him when his lips aren’t pressed to his skin. “This was the first one I saw,” the bard murmurs, reaching up to trail the tips of his fingers over a small nick of a scar near his eye. It’s one of the more faded lines on him, but he does member the bandit’s sword that caught him when he tried to fend off a roadside attack. Jaskier’s touch is light and a shiver almost shakes through him. His fingers dust down his cheek to his jaw. More small lines and faint bumps of raised skin. There mustn’t be a patch of him that hasn’t been bruised or broken or cut. Jaskier seems keen to map it all. And he’s making quick, sure work of it.--Jaskier kisses Geralt's scars and Geralt cannot comprehend why he deserves any of this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 236





	Kaleidoscope

He’s seen it all before; the curious eyes watching him across tavern halls or town market places. Curious eyes matched with coy, lilting smiles as their owners slowly muster the courage to slink over to him, settling a hand on to his vambrace, curling an arm around his shoulders, or fingers carded through his hair. Women and men have tried in the past. A few have succeeded; only when the long nights are unbearably lonely and he has pent up energy. Once their curiosity is sated, and he’s unwittingly answered whatever questions they had about him – or his _kind_ – they leave. Some have the courtesy to wait until morning, when he’s the first to wake and slip away. Others gather their clothes and slip out of the room, without even looking back. Not that he minded. The fewer connections he has to people the better. Humans are unbearably finite things with their already short lives they insist on making shorter by souring their livers with wine and ale and inhaling and tasting tobacco smoke and crushed herbs.

And then there’s Jaskier. He seemed to be one of the others. A nattering voice endlessly posing questions to him. It’s his own fault, now that he thinks back on it. He was the fool to correct the bard about what he wrote and sang about monsters. He invited this chaos upon himself. No matter how much effort he put into shaking himself free of the bard – sleeping outside on cold, damp nights; travelling for hours on end with no opportunity of stopping; keeping silent while the bard rambled on about something or other – the damn songbird stuck to his side.

He might have been like the others once, but not now. When the others saw his scars and asked their questions about them, they left as soon as he answered. Some stories he has forgotten. Scars that are too faded, he forgot that they were even there. He remembers the worst of them. The mangled knots of things dotted throughout his torso and legs. The ones that ache when the weather chills too quickly. But the ones that have faded, almost disappearing back into his skin, he can’t remember them or their stories.

Jaskier asked about them. Again, it’s his own fault. The bard spotted a few of his scars and asked about them. And when Geralt answered, he might as well have thrown kindling on a fire. On the nights where the bard insists on bathing him – for some still unknown reason, according to Geralt, but he’ll take the help when his muscles and bones ache and he can’t reach his back – Jaskier’s fingers linger over the lines and knots of raised skin and questions tumble out of his lips.

Some of those stories made their way into songs. And Geralt rolled his eyes at every one of them lilting through taverns and inns, lauded at travel-weary merchants and workers just wanting to devour their dinners and go to bed. But the lark always lures a scattering of smiles out of people. When ale and mead and wine start pouring out of their casks and into tankards, people get merrier and listen to a bard jaunting around inciting a sing-a-long; and their shared coin purse gets heavier.

Weeks and months tumbled by, contracts taken and travelling from one end of the Continent to the other. His songbird flew west for the winter and nested in Oxenfurt, and Geralt found him again the following spring; picking up where they left off. And that rhythm continues throughout sun-turns. He isn’t sure when it changes. He can’t remember a time when his feelings for Jaskier changed. But touches that had been brushed and fleeting now lingered and warmed. They got braver. Where Jaskier would clap a hand on to his shoulder most days, when his Witcher soaks in a warm, soap-scented bath, his fingers and palms burrow into Geralt’s skin and muscle and loosens the worst of his pains.

He does remember the first time their lips brushed in a kiss. He remembers the searing pain stinging through his side as his potions began to wear off. No matter how well his wounds had been cleaned and stitched back together again, the pain lingered. The healers left and it was just the two of them and Jaskier perched on the small sliver of space by the edge of his bed. Geralt remembers the pained look etched into the bard’s face. He worries for Geralt – even knowing that a Witcher’s job is more dangerous than most, and there might ( _will_ ) come a day where he won’t come back. But he worries all the same. And this looked different. It looked more pained than usual, where Jaskier worried so much his hands shook and his breath caught in his throat.

There were words. Promises that Geralt wouldn’t try and do something that stupid again. Fair, maybe taking on a pissed off royal griffin who had her nest interfered with by stupid humans alone might not have been the smarted idea he’s had. But they needed the coin. Winter was coming in quick and he still needed to make sure his lark had enough gold in his purse to carry him to Oxenfurt.

There were words and then Jaskier’s hand curling into his. His heart swelled in his chest when he gathered just enough energy to tug and pull the bard close and lure him into a long and languid kiss. The first of many.

* * *

Winter soothes the worst of the tension in his shoulders. Winter means Kaer Morhen and his brothers and _rest_. And it means days and weeks with his songbird nearby, curled around him in the morning and at night, and never an arm’s reach away. Soft and warm from a bath, still smelling like the lotions and oils Jaskier likes to sink into his skin, he’s nestled into his bed. The lit hearth crackles nearby, the fire sparking and sending a warm glow into the room.

Jaskier dusts kisses along his cheekbone, lingering for a moment just below his eye. He doesn’t pull too far away, but Geralt misses him when his lips aren’t pressed to his skin. “This was the first one I saw,” the bard murmurs, reaching up to trail the tips of his fingers over a small nick of a scar near his eye. It’s one of the more faded lines on him, but he does member the bandit’s sword that caught him when he tried to fend off a roadside attack. Jaskier’s touch is light and a shiver almost shakes through him. His fingers dust down his cheek to his jaw. More small lines and faint bumps of raised skin. There mustn’t be a patch of him that hasn’t been bruised or broken or cut. Jaskier seems keen to map it all. And he’s making quick, sure work of it.

One of Geralt’s arms is curled behind his head, sunk into the many pillows pushed up against the headboard of the bed. His other arm is curled around Jaskier’s waist and keeping him close. As if Jaskier would be anywhere else. A warm and soft bed, heavy with linens and furs, pressed against an almost purring Witcher. As another harsh winter wind howls outside, Jaskier burrows closer.

Hooded eyes map out his face. One of the few people who can meet golden, cat-eyes and not turn away out of fear. One of the few people who likes to hold Geralt’s gaze for as long as he can, until it’s Geralt’s cheeks that colour and he looks away instead. His bird has always been a strange one.

His cheek, jaw, neck, and throat. Jaskier maps all of it. He hums at the sight of another scar. One of Geralt’s closer dances with death; one that he acquired before he met Jaskier, otherwise he would have had to deal with quite the annoyed bard. Geralt is banned from dying. And that’s the end of it. If any god or spirit or deity tries to take him away from his bard, Jaskier will have a few choice words to say about the matter; if not threats armed with his lute. And Geralt wants to hang around for that day.

Geralt tilts his head back. He’s loath to lose the thick, warm sheets pulled up to his chest, but Jaskier seems to be on a mission of his own. Guess he’s just going to have to keep him warm then. Tragic. Jaskier leaves one last lingering kiss into the hollow of Geralt’s throat before going to his chest. A constellation of scars gathered throughout his life. Bigger, more jagged ones exist on his arms and legs, but the deadlier brushes with death lie in proof on his torso. Jaskier kisses each scar he can find; some that are faded lines while others are knots of healed skin.

It isn’t lost on him how odd this all is. He likes to think that he’s getting used to it, but the feeling still lingers. When he looks down and watches Jaskier pepper kisses and touches all over him as he would with any other lover he had before; Geralt can’t help but watch and wonder why? He’s a Witcher. He isn’t meant for any of this. His life is to hunt and kill and maim, and eventually either be killed by what he’s hunting or manage to clamber to old age like Vesemir and die within the keep. He isn’t meant to have the things he has now. He isn’t meant to have Jaskier; the way he looks at him, his smiles in the morning and at night, the way he touches him and leaves him breathless. Lovers came and went with the changing wind. None of them lasted long enough to make an impression. Jaskier is different. He’s different in every regard, but especially with this. And Geralt isn’t sure what to make of it.

He looks down now, watching with bated breath as Jaskier’s hand palms and rests over his chest; over a scar that sits a bit too close to his heart for anyone’s liking. And Jaskier _was_ there for that one. Though the memory is blurred by potions and blood loss and clambering medics and healers, he can remember Jaskier’s face while the rest of it is a blurring afterimage to him now. He was pale; maybe even paler than Geralt was, with most of his blood soaking the old stone floors of a ruin somewhere in Temeria, and his heartbeat so slow it was any wonder if Geralt was alive at all.

Blue familiar eyes blink up at him. His lips linger, resting against the swell of his chest. Jaskier hums. “This is the worst one,” he murmurs, running his fingertips over it. Some of his scars, and the skin around them, have lost their feeling. Any phantom tingles he gets must be just that. Others are too sensitive. And Jaskier knows exactly where those are and how Geralt feels when he kisses and touches them. He takes his time with the scar by Geralt’s heart, regarding it with all the quiet hatred he could with knowing that it was the one to almost take his Witcher away from him, but also knitted brows and a look of concern. It’s not the worst looking of his scars. When he was on his own, and not even healers would help him when the fear of Witchers was at its height, he made do with what he could offer himself. And sometimes he got hit or cut or bitten in harder to reach places. Scars speckled on his upper back are the worst – and, somehow, the ones that Jaskier spends the most amount of time worshipping.

He’s warm. Bedsheets slung over them both, loose linen pants – though he suspects they’ll be wrangled off of him in a moment if Jaskier continues his path – and the bard bundled against his side. The hearth nearby spits and crackles, and the only hint of a world outside is the howling winds of a winter storm tumbling in from neighbouring ridges. It all slips away when a familiar hand catches his jaw. Blinking, Geralt’s eyes meet bright blue ones that somehow, even in the faint glow of the room, glint with gold. The corner of Jaskier’s lip twitches with a smile. “You always wander off whenever I’m trying to kiss you,” he lulls, his eyes flickering down to the Witcher’s lips for a brief moment. “And before you start any of that gruff _I Am A Witcher And Witchers Don’t Deserve Love_ bullshit, just let me say that you absolutely do. And my job is to remind you of that.”

And Jaskier isn't going anywhere anytime soon; even when Geralt’s moods turn sour and he tries to push him away out of some misguided self-preservation. It’s been weaned out of him over the years. With every sun-turn they go through, every season into the next, and he still wakes up with Jaskier only an arm’s reach away, the feeling that he should probably spare the bard – and him – hurt feelings fades. There will be a day, though, where something will happen. Death will come for either of them and leave the other behind to curse and swear war against it. But until that day, he’s stuck with his songbird. A pestering little thing that won’t seem to go away.

For all of the gruff demeanour he likes to put on, he does nuzzle into Jaskier’s hand. A small rumbling purr manages to clamber up his throat. Jaskier’s thumb brushes against the arch of his cheekbone, rough with stubble, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. Jaskier stretches up to lure a kiss out of him. Soft, warm lips pressed against his. Kisses that could easily lead somewhere else if they’re not careful; but this is sweet and has Geralt’s heart swelling in his chest. He doesn’t deserve these either. When he walked out on to the path for the first time, and he learned what the attitude of humans was to his kind were, soft kisses and warm touches suddenly flew out of reach and he made peace with the fact that he could – and would – never have them.

And then there’s Jaskier, breaking down every wall Geralt had built around himself, and burrowing into his life to stay there.

When they part, neither of them moves far. Jaskier’s cheeks round in a smile as they set their foreheads together, noses brushing and sharing a breath. “Try not to get any more of these, hmm?” His thumb brushes the small nicked scar under Geralt’s eye. Jaskier’s gaze is soft and gentle, just as warm as the room. But something lies beyond the sea of blue; an unwavering promise that if he returned to Jaskier with one more scrape or bruise, let alone a cut or broken bone, he wouldn’t hear the last of it.

He can’t make promises like this. A Witcher hunts and kills and will eventually be hunted and killed. Injuries come with the work he has spent his life doing. But for his songbird’s peace of mind, Geralt hums. “I’ll try,” he murmurs, leaning into Jaskier’s palm.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I see a HD picture of Henry of the House Cavill with that little scar above his cheekbone? Yes. 
> 
> Did I immediately imagine Jaskier smooching it and Geralt being very flustered because This Is Not The Way (of the Witcher)? Yes. 
> 
> Did I spend my day working on this instead of another two projects that need to be done now? Absolutely. 
> 
> \---
> 
> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing - less used)
> 
> twitter;  
> @better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated x


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